


Evening Communion

by orphan_account



Category: Preacher (TV)
Genre: Drunkenness, M/M, Masturbation, cassidy fantasizing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 01:40:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7247050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>He wasn’t stealing the wine. Definitely not. It was </em>for<em> The People, right? He’s people. More or less.</em></p>
<p>Cassidy gets a little carried away after indulging in the communion wine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Evening Communion

He wasn’t stealing the wine. Definitely not. It was _for_ The People, right? He’s people. More or less.

At the very least he’s certainly something poured into an almost normal people shape, and that counted, didn’t it? He’d bet it would certainly count to the man himself. Folk with beards, hair to the shoulders, and sandals strapped onto both feet didn’t have too many problems with too much in Cassidy’s experience. Well, not too many problems when their chemical-ridden brains weren’t producing rainbow snakes and show-tunes out of his orifices.

Cassidy’s booted feet come to a scuffling stop on the dusty floor of the empty church. The moonlight drools in through the tall window frames, some just a twitch off center as the building’s settled in over time to the broken truth of a truly fucked value proposition.

Another thought is rattling around somewhere in his head. It feels important. Validating somehow. If he could only catch it. It was something Jesse had been saying - his worn voice bouncing about the pigeon-shit stained rafters.

“For sinners and salvation,” Cassidy remembers suddenly, calling it out raising the box of wine high. 

His voice echoes against the old wood. He hears himself start to chuckle. The shit stain of a church is nothing but empty and more empty. And why the bloody hell wouldn’t it be? The fact that anyone thought _anything_ let alone the End All Be All Omnipotence had any wish to listen to the sad state of affairs bouncing around these walls was beyond him. Who the hell could swallow that drivel?

“Well…” he snorts, answering his over question.

He hefts the box of wine back above his head, easily prying the catch back with his teeth and sucking off another good pint of the stuff. It tastes about as good as the rest of the place looks. But he’s always been rather keen on that sweet-sour tang that hangs around to let you know something had gone past it’s prime. Made it interesting. Made you wonder what would happen to you next.

He let’s his head fall back, closing his eyes tightly to remember the words from that sermon just right, voice echoing up into the vast deaf nothingness. “Very much… very, very, verily— right, shite that’s it, _verily_! I say unto you all poor sorry bastards: except ye eat the flesh of the Son of man, and drink his blood, ye have no life in you!”

He drops his head back down, a fresh laugh bubbling out of his chest.

“Proper pretty Christian I am, eh?”

His feet feel absurdly heavy. Why is he standing? Ridiculous fucking thing to do.

“Doesn’t sound good,” he hears himself say suddenly. He frowns, trying to put together what he meant. “Me saying so. Don’t have the knack of the delivery, eh? Doesn’t sound near so nice and fine, and tied up with a bright little ribbon and a bloody cherry on top.” That wasn’t quite right. Tired. He ought to sit down. If he sits down there’s less of a chance he’ll fall down and smash his head open on this floor. Certainly doesn’t seem wholly sanitary down there. And he’d rather not wake up smelling his own arse on fire as the sun edged through those tall windows. 

“Don’t mind if I have a seat, do yah?” he twists to mutter back up to the rafters.

Silence.

“I’ll take that as a ‘good on yah, Cass, you sit that pretty bum right on down there and have yourself a lovely little rest’.” He turns towards the pews. “Your wine tastes like Australian Arsehole by the way.” He stumbles, catching his knee sharply against the nearest pew. He swears between his teeth. “Alright, alright! Touché, amen and all that, bloody christ…”

He shakes out his leg, finally collapsing onto the empty pew. He sits for a moment, gazing at the sorry excuse for an altar at the front. Slowly the world starts to slip sideways and he finds himself lying on his side, cool wood of the pew under his shoulder and his cheek, worn old bibles staring back at him with a old self-conscious sort of judgement, like a drunk nan.

Cassidy groans, rolling over onto his back with a creak. The hand that’s still holding the box of wine drags it up onto his stomach. The weights comfortable, comforting, and he blinks up at the ceiling. Moonlight sits sharp against the old angles of the wooden beams. Sharp and cold and silver. He tries to focus, tries to remember how Jesse’s voice sounded filling the space; worn around the edges, just like this place. But unlike this place he sounds almost stronger for it, that wear-and-tear. A voice like fighter’s hands, knuckles ready to bust open and bleed and just keep swinging.

The corner of Cassidy’s lips twitch into a hazy smile. That had been a fucking surprise hadn’t it? That night in the bar. First surprise he’d had in god knows how fucking long. Bar fights were one thing, bar fights were starting to feel like how he paid his bloody tab. But to see someone swing like a hammer into a wankered up chav’s jaw with _that_ sort of smile, that smile that says at least seven all too familiar things right on its own. Well, to see that smile swing about with a neat little collar around its neck, that had been a surprise. It felt nice to have a bit of a surprise. And it hadn’t been the last one had it. 

Jesse Custer. Packed right to the bloody brim with pretty little unfolding origami cranes of dark and fascinating surprises. And that latest one, well that was one ripe cunt of an unfolding little secret wasn’t it.

Who’d have guess it? Hell, if he’d stumbled into someone like Jesse Custer on some anonymous street in some anonymous city on some anonymous day, he’d of only thought about catching his tanned arm with long fingers and trying to chat his way into a messy nosh off in the nearest loo.

He feels his fingers flex against the edges of the cheap wine box. His eyes fall shut on their own. He pulls Jesse’s voice back into the emptiness of the space. All those worn edges. How the hell can someone manage to sound so damn tired and so damn hopeful at the same bloody time?

He hears that voice filling the weary rafters overhead, the voice that’s all Jesse and nothing else. Then he hears it shift, change; that vast rumble of something not his roll like thunder through it and somehow it feels like the building itself get’s bigger just to hold onto it. He wonders if it would feel the same in some shitty loo in some shitty bar with his own shoulders shoved back against a graffiti scrawled mirror and Jesse’s hands tightening against the edges of his shirt. That voice that’s half his and half something else. Close and quiet but still humming against every nerve like a bloody car battery. ” _Look at me, Cass_.”

A low groan slips out of Cassidy as his pants suddenly get a little tighter than they ought. He opens his eyes again, blearily gazing at the rafters. “Shite.”

He let’s out a low long sigh, dropping his eyes downwards.

“Going away?” Much to his shock his half-alert cock doesn’t seem to be in much of a mood to be obliging. Wonders never cease, eh? He rolls his eyes back upwards. “Shite.”

Cassidy takes one deep growling breath and pulls the box of wine back up to his face only this time he tilts it just to the side, just enough to sink his teeth right through the cardboard and metallic tinge of the plastic lining, sucking hard and deep, and opening his throat right up to let the oozy dreamy feeling of Christ’s bloody forgiveness just keep pouring in.

The empty crumpled box falls onto the dusty floor and Cassidy licks his lips, catching his tongue on a canine, and oh would you look at that, his hands suddenly have altogether nothing better to do.

One hand grinds readily down over the bulge in his jeans and he bites back a swear. His hazy brain is all too ready to play along: Jesse’s arms back against his shoulders, shoving him tight to a slightly sticky wall in a hardly big enough loo in the back of that bar. Jesse’s molasses voice against his ear: ” _Alright, alright—_ ” 

Cassidy’s hand grinds firmer all on it’s own and a little rush of sudden guilt flashes through his chest. It takes him so much by surprise that his eyes flash open suddenly. The little wonders never cease, eh? Where the bloody hell did that come from? Not the church. Lord knows he’s done more than worse in churches at least ten times further up god’s arse than this one. Then what? Jesse? Does he maybe feel a slight bit guilty for enjoying some vinegar strokes in his friend’s church to the idea of that friendly little good-neighbor smile going breathless and chuffed as he grinds against Cassidy’s thigh?

His cock jumps against under his hand again and Cassidy can’t help tightening his fingers messily along the line of it, grunting at the feeling as his jaw tightens. Certainly makes it more interesting, doesn’t it. Little salt of guilt on the bloody steak of self-gratification. It’s got his blood pumping a little hotter than usual in his ears, his gut twisting in a way that’s making the pressure on his knob especially interesting. The wine swirls thick and heady through his head. Wine for sinners and salvation. Not enough. Wouldn’t be enough if they filled the bloody oceans. Cassidy snarls, long fingers snapping open his belt and working his fly open. He let’s the wine take over. What’s that absurd fucking expression they’ve got down here? Jesus take the wheel?

He can’t help laughing, a gurgling half lost sort of sound fluttering up into the hollow ceiling. He hardly hears it, his head feels like it’s filled with gauze and suddenly there’s nothing but Jesse. Jesse’s fingers tightening on the bones of his hips. Jesse’s forearms, black sleeves rolled up just enough to see the ragged street brawling sort of strength shift under the skin. Jesse’s jeans, and bloody christ! What sort of priest wears jeans that make your fucking cock look that good? There’s got to be at least three of those big stone blocks that wanker toted down that hill giving you good reasons to not sell jeans like that to a man with a pair of eyes that swallow you whole and a smile that looks sweet with secrets.

Cassidy wraps his hand around himself, dragging his fingers down with a tight firm thrust. He groans selflessly into the emptiness of omnipotent indifference.

” _Cass._ ” He feels the voice hot against the side of his neck. He imagines getting a hand in that bloody blessing of a head of hair, dragging Jesse’s neck into an easy stubbled arch. He imagines opening his own mouth right above that damn collar and licking all the way up against stubble and a sting of sweat and— 

“Christ,” Cassidy swears, that little sparkle of guilt flashing again, making his brow pepper with a tickle of sweat. He chuckles a little wildly, the surprise of it wrapping up around him like a whole new liquor. He bites his lip, daring that feeling to keep it up as he tightens his grip and thrusts his hips wantonly right into his own fist, his mind feeling his cock right against the bulge of Jesse’s godforsaken jeans. 

He feels himself grab Jesse by that collar, drag him in close, open his mouth hot and wet on his, those teeth and those lips, those perfect fucking sins of lips. He imagines tasting that smile he’d seen that night in the bar. He’s almost damn sure it tastes a good deal like cheap cigarettes and whiskey and god, who knows what else. 

“Fuck me—” Cassidy can’t help tightening his grip, pumping his fist rougher, faster, and suddenly it’s as though something breaks behind his hazy excuse for a brain and the images just pour through in an utterly confusing jumble of a mess.

Jesse spinning him against the wall in that bar, shoving his face against the stick of the wall and grinding his cock hard against his arse. Jesse leaning against that table in their kitchen next to him, smiling at him like that, gently, easily catching Cassidy’s chin, pulling him just close enough to run his tongue over his lower lip. Jesse slamming the church doors behind them, dropping to his knees and shoving Cassidy’s jeans open with practiced fingers, wrapping the wet sin of those lips tight around him and looking up at him with those dare-filled eyes. Jesse’s warmth pressed tight against his side on that flea-bitten mattress in that back room of his, nothing but skin and heat and a soft laugh next to him. Jesse pinning him down against that shitty little altar, letting out a huff of shock as he pushes deep into Cassidy’s arse and tightens fingers around his wrists hard enough to bruise. Jesse’s hand push him harder back against that very church pew, Jesse’s fingers fucking down firm and demanding around his cock. He hears that voice hot in his ear, a rumble through the fabric of reality. ” _Come._ ”

Cassidy gasps, orgasm dragging through him with a sudden burst. The white wet heat of it pulls in one push after another as he urges through it, and then, with a shaky groan, he slows.

He eases his bony hips back down onto the wood of the pew. His free hand drops heavy as lead to the dusty floor. The other loosens just enough around his spent cock.

He takes a moment. And a few good deep breathes. With a creak of the wooden pew he rolls a bit to the side, clean hand reaching out and snagging one of the bibles sitting neatly behind the pew in front of him. He flips it open and with a little grunt smears his messy hand clean on the pages. He flicks the bible shut with a neat sound and easily taps it right back into place where he’d found it.

He groans, arching his back and twisting his neck with a sharp crack. He blinks up at the ceiling above, the post-orgasm feeling still humming around his limbs.

He sighs. “Well, big man if you are up there, I hope you’re bloody enjoying the show.” 

His eyes are starting to slip shut. He should remember to put his knob away. That would be a good thing to remember. That’s exactly what he needs, someone finding him on fire with his knob swinging free first thing in the morning. Good way to start a Sunday.

“Oh,” his voice falls off, hardly a mumble, one eye just managing to peer back up at the ceiling, “and thanks for the wine. I’m bloody saved.”


End file.
